The Beauty of Ish

There’s a particular rhythm to island living—an unhurried pulse that doesn’t quite align with clocks, schedules, or the frantic pace of the mainland. Here on Guemes Island, the ferry is due at 10:00. Or maybe 10:00-ish. My daily walk with Wally, my four-legged companion, begins around 4-ish, after the sun slides just low enough to soften the path ahead. Dinnertime? Evening-ish. The day flows, not in rigid blocks, but in gently meandering currents. This is the way of the island. This is the way of ish.

In our little corner of the Salish Sea, ish is more than a casual suffix or a convenient shorthand for delay. It’s a way of being—an acceptance that life is fluid, that perfection is not required, and that certainty is, perhaps, overrated. To live with ish is to leave room for grace.

What’s most compelling is that this modern, colloquial use of -ish—to imply approximation, wiggle room, and gentle suggestion—unintentionally echoes the older, deeper roots of this place and its original inhabitants. Long before schedules and watches arrived on these shores, the Samish people lived by the tides, the winds, and the quiet language of the land. They lived not by minutes, but by moments. And in their name—Samish—one can hear an ancient whisper of that same fluidity we still cherish today.

Of course, the “-ish” in Samish, like in Swinomish or Snohomish, and many other tribal names, isn’t a casual add-on. It’s an English attempt to capture sounds from the Coast Salish languages, where suffixes like -məš and -əbš meant “people of” or “those belonging to” a place. The Samish were—and are—the people of these shores, of Dog Island, of Guemes. Their identity is embedded in the land, not as owners, but as relations to it. The -ish in their name is not about uncertainty, but about belonging.

And yet, I can’t help but feel there’s an unexpected kinship between the two uses of ish. For while the modern ish implies approximation, it also invites a different kind of precision—one that values context over measurement. When I say I’ll arrive at 5-ish, I’m telling you not the minute I’ll appear, but the spirit in which I’ll come. Not rushed, not late, but in rhythm with what’s unfolding.

This, too, is how island time works. It hums in time with ferry horns and raven calls, not notifications and deadlines. It’s the land that dictates our time—the tides, the trees, the sudden bloom of blackberries. And isn’t that a kind of homage to those who came before us, the first -ish people who moved through these forests and waterways with attentiveness and awe?

The Samish lived in seasonal villages, harvesting salmon, cedar, and camas bulbs with care and reciprocity. Their lives, like ours, were shaped by what was available, when it was available. Flexibility wasn’t laziness—it was wisdom. To live in harmony with this place meant accepting the ish-ness of it all: the mist that may or may not burn off, the salmon run that might be early-ish, the berry crop that might be late-ish. Precision, in this context, would be folly. 

So maybe the island’s ish-ness—this easy tolerance for delay and deviation—isn’t just a quirk of modern, laid-back living. Maybe it’s an inheritance. A quiet nod to an older way, encoded in the land and in language. In the Samish name, there is strength and identity. But also, there is movement. -ish denotes relationship. And what is more relational than living in step with nature, in tune with neighbors, in gentle rapport with time?

I often think of how different life feels when we remove the pressure to arrive “on time,” to deliver “exactly,” to be “just right.” Instead, we get to say “soon-ish,” “close-ish,” “good enough-ish.” These are not apologies. They are small acts of liberation, especially in a culture that often mistakes urgency for importance. And often applies urgency to things that are not important.

To live on an island like Guemes is to be reminded daily that we are not in charge of everything—not the ferry, not the weather, not the moods of the sea. But we are participants. We are guests. We are, in the best sense, ish—approximate, adaptable, attuned.

So the next time I say I’ll meet you at 2-ish, know this: I’m coming when the wind softens, when Wally finishes his nap, when the path feels just right underfoot. It won’t be exact, but it will be real. I’ll arrive when it’s time.

And in that, I believe, there is deep freedom.
The freedom to be unhurried.
The freedom to be part of a living landscape.
The freedom to belong—ish.

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P.S. To better understand the meaning of “-ish” in tribal names like Samish and Swinomish, I turned to ChatGPT Scholar AI for research and linguistic support. The insights shared in my essay are rooted in that research. I also relied on the tool to help me include spellings in the dialect of Northern/Straits Salish spoken by the Samish people, since my keyboard doesn’t support special phonetic symbols or diacritical marks. I share this with respect for the Coast Salish languages and the original stewards of this land.